


Push Me Out To Sea

by photosynthiseyesing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, band au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/photosynthiseyesing/pseuds/photosynthiseyesing
Summary: Enjolras is gesticulating with such force that the waitress delivering their lunch has to duck to avoid being hit, stifling a laugh.  He’s talking about one of their newer songs; how the use of the ‘he’ pronoun will likely shock some of the older audience members at their gigs, but it will be worth it, and how he’s prepared a short speech to give before it about Northern Ireland’s lack of marriage equality.  Truth be told, Grantaire is only half listening, drowsy, picking at a scone, until he hears his own name.“You’re fine with the range, aren’t you, Grantaire?  If not, we can make some adjustments.”Grantaire chokes on his scone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song 'Landfill' by Daughter.
> 
> The idea for this literally came to me in a dream. I wish I was joking because frankly, that is ridiculous, but I am being entirely serious.

Grantaire loves the sea. It is wild, untamed, unquantified. He has always thought, in the back of his mind, that were he alive in a different time he would have been a lighthouse keeper. The job appeals to him; with his penchant for thick woollen jumpers and isolation, he would be the perfect stereotype.

His hand moves slowly over the rock that he sits on, over and over again, feeling the rough drag of it on his palm as he watches the sunrise. The gold mixes with the swirling pink, making his fingers itch for a paintbrush. Instead, he snaps a picture with his phone.

Three missed calls from Eponine. He sighs, anticipating the telling-off he’ll get when he returns to the rented cottage where the band is staying. Grantaire has a history of running away that Eponine knows all too well. He missed practice last night, and their tour of Ireland and Northern Ireland kicks off in two weeks time. They’ll be mostly playing in small pubs and venues, but it’s something, and their small following doesn’t stretch much further than that anyway.

The grass rustles in the distance, more than the light wind would allow for. He shifts to see Jehan walking towards him, two steaming mugs in hand. He smiles, accepting gratefully, and they sit in peaceful silence.

***

Enjolras is gesticulating with such force that the waitress delivering their lunch has to duck to avoid being hit, stifling a laugh. He’s talking about one of their newer songs; how the use of the ‘he’ pronoun will likely shock some of the older audience members at their gigs, but it will be worth it, and how he’s prepared a short speech to give before it about Northern Ireland’s lack of marriage equality. Truth be told, Grantaire is only half listening, drowsy, picking at a scone, until he hears his own name.

“You’re fine with the range, aren’t you, Grantaire? If not, we can make some adjustments.”

Grantaire chokes on his scone.

Five minutes later, red in the face and damp, having spilt the water Joly passed him down his front, he manages to splutter out an answer.

“I am, yeah. But you wrote it, aren’t you singing it?”

Enjolras blinks.

“Grantaire, you’re our vocalist,” he says slowly.

A knot is tightening in Grantaire’s stomach. He feels like an animal trapped in a cage. He can feel his flush deepen and spread across his face towards his ears, and his hands begin to twist, twist, twist, at the napkin between them.

“It’s your song. Wouldn’t you rather sing it yourself?”

“You know I can’t sing half as well as you can. Besides, it would suit your voice better.”

He can’t think of a reason why to continue to argue, other than the truth - that he is afraid. It is ridiculous, he knows, that he could be in a band that seems at times to be half social activist group and still be afraid of revealing to strangers that he’s bi, but there it is. He’s an anxiety ridden mess most of the time, but he hides it well enough, as does he hide his not-quite out status from his friends.

They’d be surprised, although sympathetic and understanding. This, he could cope with, but he knows that there would be that little hint of pity in their voices that he can’t bear. His mental health is far from good, but he hides it behind drunkenness and sarcasm. He feels their pity, the burning shame in the pit of his stomach when he lifts the bottle, and he doesn’t need it in any other areas of his life.

Only Eponine and Jehan have seen beneath his facade and dealt with him at his worst. Eponine, because she’s been putting him back together for years, far before they’d met the others. Jehan, because they have never been shy about their own struggles with mental illness, and both find it comforting to know that they are not alone.

Besides, Grantaire has never been able to say no to Enjolras.

“Sure, just send me the lyrics later.”

Enjolras gives him a quick and grateful smile, then moves on. Jehan squeezes his hand under the table, and Grantaire squeezes back. He can’t quite bring himself to return Enjolras’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for some referenced self-harm in future chapter(s). I'll make sure to include trigger warnings in the relevant chapter notes, and let you know exactly where it will be situated so you can skim right over it if you need to.
> 
> P.S. A scone in the UK is not the same as a scone in America. This is a scone. Scones are lovely and you're missing out.  
> http://www.telegraph.co.uk/content/dam/Food%20and%20drink/scones_intro1_1989_3391337a-large.jpg


	2. Chapter 2

The beat of the drum is hurting Grantaire’s head. Each thump echoes hollowly through his mind, banging off the walls of his brain and throbbing. His stomach lurches in time. They’re about to rehearse. He’s hungover. Getting blackout drunk to avoid thinking about the next day always seems like a good idea until the next day rolls around.

“Everyone ready?”

A chorus of voices, with the notable exception being Grantaire

Shaking hands, trembling, weak - he grips the microphone, too hard, giving his hands something to clutch around. He can’t do this. He’s frozen. He’s letting his friends down, and he’s never loathed himself quite as deeply as he does now.

They start to play, and Grantaire doesn’t feel it, the usual calm wave of serenity that washes over him and soothes away his worries.

He can’t do it, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

He misses his cue.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forgetting about the microphone against his lips. It’s too loud. He jumps. “I’m sorry.”

He turns his back and does what he does best. He runs away.

***

He has come back to the sea, hidden behind the rock formations at the far end of the beach. The beach is small and the sand more pebbles, but he’s always felt most at peace near the water.

One of his friends will come looking for him, but not yet. As he left, he heard Eponine tell them to leave him, let him go. He reckons he has an hour at least before someone shows up.

He wants to reach deep inside of himself and pull, tear out whatever it is that makes him such a coward.

Knees curled, arms folded around himself, he settles on the damp ground and leans against the sheltering rocks. Some days, the rocks look jagged and angry, cursing the stormy waves which punish them, but the tide is out and they provide a respite, a place safe from the pitying eyes of his friends.

Hot, shameful tears make their way down his face, and he is fumbling for the flask of whisky in his pocket when Enjolras appears, with furrowed brows and shifting feet.

Grantaire freezes, his body curling in on itself further without his command.

Enjolras walks towards him, as though he is approaching a wounded animal, and lowers himself to the ground, back against the rock beside him. There is a space between them, and Enjolras waits with a questioning look for his nod before closing it.

Slowly, he presses his side against him and wraps an arm around his shaking body. Grantaire hides his face in Enjolras’s shoulder, wiping away his tears with a sleeve.

“I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shakes his head against the other man’s shoulder, not trusting himself to answer without further tears bursting forth.

Enjolras pauses. He speaks haltingly, choosing his words with care.

“I shouldn’t have made you sing that song. It was obvious you didn’t want to. I shouldn’t have pressured you. I won’t do it again. I can sing it, or we can cut it completely.”

“Not your fault. Mine. Don’t cut it. I didn’t mean to cause a scene.” says Grantaire, his voice little more than a whisper.

Enjolras pulls him closer, and Grantaire feels the tears start to flow again. He is ashamed, weak, a burden. He is taking advantage of Enjolras’s kindness, letting himself be held like this, crying even though his heart speeds up at the closeness. It isn’t fair, and he should pull away, but he gives into the comforting warmth.

“Would it help to talk about it? You don’t have to, but I’m here.”

Grantaire considers it, spilling his messy thoughts into Enjolras’s perfectly organised mind. It would be like an oil spill. A cruelty. He is already enough of a dead weight, and Enjolras doesn’t deserve to be subjected to the trainwreck that is his mind. He wants to, so badly.

“I can’t.” he says instead, and digs his fingernails into his leg, hard, to stop the flow of tears.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a couple of chapters written, and I'm going to try to keep writing and uploading regularly, so if you'd like to read some more feel free to subscribe! 
> 
> Come talk to me at strawbaimee.tumblr.com


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